


A Lethal Orchestration

by DenebictBumbercatch



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 13:37:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DenebictBumbercatch/pseuds/DenebictBumbercatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A client visits 221b Baker Street very obviously shaken by a death he has witnessed, hoping that Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson will assist him...But is the client all he seems?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lethal Orchestration

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this story as part of a project for college, and hopefully it reflects/emulates the style of Arthur Conan Doyle. Please leave me feedback of any kind (if you do like it, don't like it, or think it is or isn't anything like the originals) as I can use it (anonymously) as part of my project with regard to reader/fan response. Thank you, and I hope you enjoy!

A Lethal Orchestration

In the year of 1885, before the great debacle which led to the acquaintance of my wife and I, myself and Holmes, as residents of 221b Baker Street were somewhat inundated with visitors enquiring after the help of Mr Holmes. I flatter myself thinking they perhaps wanted my assistance also, though any man with his wits about him would surely ask after Holmes in such a position. I recall this particular incidence with a fondness, for its ending was most unlike any other case I had experienced, nor that I since witnessed.

It was mere days before Christmas when the bell of Baker Street rang for the first time in over a week. Holmes had of course been his usual self, that of being usual for him, but to passersby, a man of altogether peculiar habits. Once again I found myself procuring errands around the Town so as not to be forced to sit and watch him lie motionless, or, as was increasingly often, twirling a syringe of cocaine solution between his fingers, an occurrence which made me feel most irritable.

The doorbell rang a sharp ring. Naturally, Holmes gestured for myself to answer it, despite his being lay on the chaise by the fireplace for at least six and a quarter hours that day. Myself not being occupied much other than my usual perusing of The Chronicle, I obliged, and was met by a most queer looking, slender man, short of stature, with a foppish demeanour and a long, light brown set of sideburns. His top hat sat at a most awkward angle atop his head and he looked a trifle flustered, though he was courteous enough to give me a warm, greeting smile. His stride was of considerable width and he proceeded to march somewhat impertinently right past me, and ascended the 17 stairs to 221b in an almost militaristic fashion, before stopping at the threshold of the large living room. 

The curtains of our living room had been drawn for some days; Holmes far better preferred the glow of our gas lamps than the dim light of cold winter days that were, in his words, unworkable. 

I hoped at that moment that Holmes would not react in a bad manner to this stranger storming into the room, as he so often had done. I now understood that Holmes’ moods or “in the dumps” as he called them, came whenever crime or cases were lacking. I also observed that he greatly enjoyed the solving of mystery and he of course revelled in its conclusion, yet the fact it had to end at all depressed him greatly. 

I do however recall that day, how his face did grin when the man entered the living room of our flat. 

“Ah! Excellence itself!” Holmes cried, sitting upright on the chaise and motioning riotously with his hands. 

The figure who had entered clearly had a set of tried nerves and recoiled somewhat at Holmes' sudden movements.

“Do sit down and smoke as you please.” Holmes spoke serenely and gestured to a chair, whilst I took my usual armchair nearest the fireplace. 

The guest nodded politely and sat down; it is at this point I noted the startled look of his countenance, chiefly his eyes. No doubt Holmes had previously picked up on this, for it was obvious that the man had had a substantially terrifying encounter. Holmes lit his pipe and took a long and thoughtful drag before the client opened his mouth to speak.

"Oh yes, pray do tell the happenings of forty minutes ago.” Holmes interjected, prompting our newest client to glance at his pocket watch and then gape at Holmes in awe.

“How could you possibly know it was forty minutes ago?" asked he.

Holmes had a most queer vice for doing this; making statements which displayed his intellect and deductive capabilities, by encouraging someone to enquire as to how he gained the information. However, though it happened frequently, it under no circumstances ceased to amaze me how he arrived at his conclusions. 

"The startled look on your face without a doubt exhibits that whatever atrocities you have witnessed you have witnessed relatively recently, and you have sought after me here straight from the scene which you have observed. The rain in London has been particularly substantial this week, this morning included, and so the bottoms of your boots are naturally wet. You have trodden in some brick dust, as well as some mortar, which was obviously at the place you have come from, as you took a cab from there straight here, else it would have been washed off by the aforementioned rain. Now, if I do remember correctly, Charing Cross station is undergoing a refurbishment, is it not? Thus, you have trodden in construction materials at Charing Cross station, which is approximately 37 minutes away from here by cab, not of course factoring in your walk from the building you left to your cab, or the time you've been in the flat, so, I'd say forty minutes or thereabouts is correct. If you would be so kind as to commence your narrative of events, I await this shocking mystery with the greatest anticipation. "

The client began to shake his head and shuffled back in the armchair. I shook my head and reassured the man that we were able to help him, and as daunting as Holmes was, his bark was far worse than his bite, so long as one remained on the right side of the law. The client nodded and began to speak. Instantly I knew that Holmes would be scrutinising his every word and slight movement, as he so often did. 

“Mr Holmes,” He began, pasting a weak smile on his face. “A matter has arisen…that-” He now began to whimper and his voice became higher in pitch, causing him to clear his throat and my good companion to lean forward in his seat, in interest.

Once again, the client cleared his throat in order to speak, yet Holmes remained in his position: staring intently and eager-eyed, leaning forward on the chaise. 

“Mr Holmes,” began the client, for a second time, his voice trembling. 

“Today...Today, I saw something, wholly unexpected and truly horrifying.” His diction and pronunciation were exact, as I knew Holmes would note silently. “I arranged last week to see a recital- this evening- of Chopin’s Concertos at the Adelphi Theatre, performed by Benedict Armitage, whom I have been told is-“

“An excellent performer.” Holmes finished, and both the client and I raised our eyebrows at him in surprise. Holmes’ interest in classical music was sufficient, particularly when compared to his utter disregard for politics or literature.

“The Chronicle, Watson.” He said, his tone that of a man most unamused. “It is a rather obvious observation that concert pianist and conductor, Benedict Armitage, has received considerable critical acclaim these last few days, for his extraordinary recitals of Chopin.” He then gestured impatiently for the client to continue.

“Yes, yes, that’s the chap!” The client ejaculated, moving in his seat. It was here I wondered as to why a man of such a powerful stride as his was noticeably threatened by the wiry figure of Sherlock Holmes. Indeed, Holmes had power of his own- his boxing, regular exercise and strict (practically nonexistent) diet saw to that, but he did not, on first impressions, give the illusion of a terrifying man, and yet he often did frighten people, I had noted. 

Holmes nodded for the client to further his descriptions.

“Well, Mr Holmes, this evening the concert began, and I was watching and listening with great interest as I-”

“Play the clarinet.” Holmes finished, with a satisfied smile.

This time the client gave no reaction to the interruption, and instead continued with his recalling of events.

“Yes, I do, and so I was watching the principal clarinettist somewhat intently, as any keen musician would, when suddenly, quite abruptly, he collapsed on the floor of the stage, convulsing in a fit.” The client began to shudder and in response Holmes leant so far forward on the chaise I was afraid that he was about to tip over onto the coffee table. He quirked an eyebrow at the client who shakily carried on narrating. 

“He trembled and trembled on the stage, and then he went silent and still.” The client blinked a few times, dabbing his cheeks with his handkerchief. “It was clear he was dead.” He said, holding back a sob. 

Holmes sat back again in his seat, craning his neck upwards, looking not unlike a majestic lion, basking in the African sunshine.  
“The orchestra stopped playing, I presume?” he asked, his voice causing the client to jitter in his seat. The client gave a small nod and sniffed, dabbing his handkerchief on his face again. “They did, yes. The recital was of course cancelled.”

Holmes began to nod slowly, his lengthy, thick eyebrows joining together. “But you didn’t come right here; you saw something else, at the theatre, before catching a cab here.” The client once again nodded, and attempted to calm his nerves with a deep breath. His countenance however, appeared to stir and gave the impression that he could not make up his mind what to say. 

A wry smile began to tease the corners of Holmes’ mouth and his eyes brightened. I have never seen a man look so inspired by the possibility of malevolent happenings as Holmes so often does. 

With quivering lips, the client once again began to speak, his voice reduced to a soft, shaky whimpering. 

“As everyone began to file out of the auditorium I noticed a gang of men, dressed somewhat like highwaymen- black cloaks, masks and such. The forum was so busy that I seldom had chance to get a second glance before they had disappeared.” The client sucked in a deep breath once again, wincing this time at the air no doubt, which was heavy with the taste of Holmes’ pipe smoke. “But, I saw the conductor; he was part of the group. The men in cloaks. He was one of them.” The client finished with a small nod, somewhat polite in nature. He patted his dry cheeks with his handkerchief dramatically, and I noticed Holmes’ eyes cast him over, narrowing with suspicion.

Then, as the client looked at my companion, both of Holmes’ eyebrows ascended and the smile that had been playing upon his mouth came out in full force. 

“Remarkable.” He observed, somewhat awe-stricken, “Revenge, revenge Dr Watson, Rache, you will observe.”

Not for the first time in my existence I was baffled by Sherlock Holmes’ intelligence, but not necessarily his intelligence alone. His sheer lack of awareness that I was not in any way of similar ability to him frequently astounded me also. It seemed baffling to him that not every man possessed abilities in league with his, and every time he was asked about his methods of deduction he appeared somewhat dumbfounded as to how other people had not arrived at the same conclusion as he. I questioned him, as anyone would, about his theory which he explained to me with great delight.

“It’s simple, admirably obvious, Dr Watson!” He exclaimed. Evidently, just as I was astounded by his expectation of me, he in turn was astounded by my not living up to his expectations.

“Holmes I really cannot fathom how-” I began, only for Holmes to curtail my speaking.

“A matter of simplicity!” he exclaimed, pointing at me accusingly with the tail of his pipe. “You remember, do you not, the matter of “A Study in Scarlet?” To this I nodded, for I did indeed remember the debacle, with a certain fondness also. As my first of many mysteries with Holmes, I shall forever remember it somewhat delightedly.

“Well then, my dear Watson, I am astounded as to how it perplexes you so to remember the motive behind the crimes?” At this point my eyebrows raised as the realisation washed over me; revenge was indeed a seemingly popular motive for murder, or indeed most crimes which my good companion Holmes detailed to me every so often. I nodded to show him I understood, and he continued:

“The conductor enlisted the help of this masked gang in order to partake in the cold blooded murder of the clarinettist, his motive exactly being jealousy. He chose, however, to leave us with a fantastic set of clues to his character and his crime.” At this point the client leant forward to ask a question, something which I had already considered. Holmes raised a delicate, long, white finger and continued.

“The nature of this very crime? Murder: The unlawful premeditated killing of one human being by another. But this was murder of a humiliating sort to be precise, as it was committed on stage, during a performance. In this way we can simply deduce Watson, that the conductor, for reasons that are, for now at least, unbeknownst to us, premeditated a way to humiliate and kill the clarinettist. From this we can further deduce that the clarinettist’s crime against him must have been a grave one to inspire such strong emotions and desires in the conductor for him to commit such a risky crime as a murder in public. It’s elementary.”

My gaze had shifted from the good detective, and instead I was observing the client, who had shrunk back in his seat with something of a proud look upon his countenance. 

“But how, Holmes, can you know that it was the conductor specifically who wanted the clarinettist dead, and not another member of this caped gang?” I asked in astonishment, but Holmes did not respond to answer my question, having already arisen with gusto, his coat in hand.

“We must not dwell on such details here, Watson, when there is an almost fresh crime scene begging to be further explored!” he ejaculated, straightening the lapels of his coat and bending down to tie his bootlaces. I stood up and paced toward the hat-stand fetching my cane and overcoat, whilst the client, however, remained seated.

“Sir, aren’t you going to accompany us out?” Holmes asked, straightening his own top hat, perhaps a slight gesture for the client to rectify his own askew headpiece. 

“B-but? Right now? Wait-”

The client gave a thick, loud swallow, his voice once again reduced to a whisper as he toyed with the collar of his shirt.

My dear friend’s only answer was a smirk and a turning of his body. 

“Perhaps we shall partake in further discussion another time, Sir.” said Holmes, giving a pointed nod towards the door.

Something indescribable changed about the young man’s face, as though he had just regarded a large, ominous storm cloud above the place to which he was travelling. His bottom lip quivered and he reached for his handkerchief again, sniffing into it. 

“So soon?” He whimpered. 

“Evidently so,” replied Holmes.

“But...” The client protested

“You’ve reported a crime to us which you wish us to investigate, but not immediately? A request that is most strange, wouldn’t you agree, Dr Watson?” Holmes mused, quirking an eyebrow at the client in puzzlement.

I agreed most heartily, and Holmes continued.

“I do not wish for the crime scene to be tampered with, as you must appreciate Sir, and so to make haste would be a most advisable course of action.” This is the most Holmes has ever attempted in lieu of politeness, and I feel that it had something to do with the client’s clearly nervous nature. 

The client continued to quiver, removing his thin, long-fingered hand from under his leg. Though his arm was shaking in some sort of terror he managed to raise it, his fingertips brushing his bottom lip. It was then that I noticed a frown setting upon his countenance and he began to breathe deeply. I regarded his fingers resting towards his mouth, and then suddenly he clenched his hand into a fist. 

“Mr Holmes,” he said irately, his voice undulating between high notes. “Am I not in considerable danger now, having witnessed such a calamity?” 

The smirk that crept upon my good companion’s lips was something that I can only describe as perfectly displaying my sentiments towards the client at that moment, for I am certain that there is not a safer place in Britain than the flat in Baker Street. 

“Danger?” ask Holmes, unable to disguise his amusement, though I doubt that he had even tried to.

“W-Well, somebody could have followed me here, they might know what I am telling you about... I fear it would be unwise to walk out and about in London with you, there are all kinds of scoundrels about!”

“I ask you, Sir, did anyone follow you here?” Holmes’ tone was usually one of impatience though in this instance it was far more evident.

“Well, I...I do not know, Mr Holmes, I did not see.”

“The gentleman did not see!” ejaculated Holmes, a wide smile distorting his usually serious, aquiline features.

I do confess, dear reader, that at this point I was most heartily amused by our client, who clearly determined himself of greater importance and of greater intellect that the great Holmes himself. It is beyond reasonable doubt that Holmes had already concluded that the best course of action was to make haste towards the Adelphi theatre, yet this gentleman in the armchair felt it necessary to dispute such matters. It was an instance most farcical indeed, and one of the few times anyone has ever dared to query Holmes about his consideration of possibilities. 

Holmes looked down his large, softly hooked nose at the client who was slithering around in the armchair with nervousness. 

“My dear Watson, you do recall what I have informed you concerning that which you do and do not do.”

“Indeed I do,” I replied, for many a valuable lesson had been learnt by myself from the great wisdom of Sherlock Holmes.

“And that is?”

“I see, but I do not observe.” 

“Indeed you don’t, Dr Watson, and yet compared to our dear companion here you are one step ahead even then!” Holmes exclaimed, laughing heartily. He then turned back from addressing me to look at our newest acquaintance once more. “Sir, you must please let me assure you that the fact you did not notice anyone following you here would indicate that there was indeed no one following you.” 

The client opened his mouth to speak, but Holmes leant forward again, continuing his speech. 

“Now, Sir, let me also assure you that I am trained in several physical disciplines and carry a pocket knife about my person frequently, and I do believe that my dear Watson here has a gun. Thus, there is no safer place than London for you, so long as my Boswell and I are around.”

The client pursed his lips as though unsatisfied, his jaw clenched. 

“Very well, Mr Holmes.” He said. His words were staccato and punctuated precisely. 

Holmes smiled softly, inclining his head to the door.

“Very well, Mr Davison, we shall be on our way.”

The client stood in shock, his mouth agape. It was at this point I noticed that the client had not introduced himself, and yet Holmes already knew his name. The illusion was not one to which I succumbed however, as I had witnessed Holmes do this on one occasion previously, and so I knew he had perhaps regarded an initial upon the man’s handkerchief, or perhaps beneath the brim of his top hat.

“How on earth-“ the client began to ask, but he was interrupted by Holmes.

“Something which I am sure I can explain another time.” said my good companion, gesticulating towards the door once more with a willowy hand. “To the Adelphi theatre” he announced, beginning to walk down the stairs. 

I looked apologetically at the client, noticing that despite my rather stout and hardy stature contributing to my lack of height, I was still a good head above this man, who was of an extremely slight profile. 

We headed out onto the street and Holmes was just about to hail a carriage when the client glanced at his pocket watch, exclaiming loudly.

“Oh, crumbs!” he expostulated, straightening the lapels of his waistcoat with fervour. His hand was aquiver again and he turned to address Holmes once more.

“Mr Holmes, I fear I have a most pressing engagement which I must adhere to. I have a train to catch towards-” he curtailed his speech, instead clearing his throat scratchily, as though the details he was about to disclose were unsuitable for us to hear. 

Holmes meanwhile ignored the client’s words, being already halfway through climbing into the waiting carriage. 

I bid the gentleman good evening and entered the cab myself, and did not notice until we were a good way down the street that the client was still waiting outside our residence, ready to hail another carriage.

A companionable silence surrounded myself and Holmes in the cab towards the Strand, though I knew that whilst my brain was busy considering what luncheon meat was left in the pantry in order to make myself a pleasant supper when we returned, Holmes’ was probably deep amidst the mystery of this new death. To say that sensational crimes and criminals greatly interested him would be to do him a great disservice; he was infatuated beyond measure with all that was prohibited, but not unattainably so. I knew little of his history and his relatives whilst seemingly he knew everything of mine. Whilst this might seem somewhat disconcerting and irregular in terms of normal human relationships, I feel myself becoming increasingly well versed in his strange ways, and I do believe that it is something that he cannot help. 

London town was thriving. Despite it being almost eight o’clock in the evening and very nearly dark, there was a plethora of theatregoers and patrons of the arts scene traversing up and down the dusky, lamp-lit streets. 

Upon arriving at the Adelphi theatre on the Strand, myself and Holmes passed through the foyer quickly, Holmes breezing past the rather exasperated looking ticket-clerk without even bothering to notice his existence. I tapped the brim of my hat apologetically as we disappeared into one of the snaking corridors leading to the main concert hall, the glow of the gas lamps flanking the walls causing me to feel somewhat drowsy. 

The corridor we had taken lead us directly behind the stage, and Holmes walked confidently into the centre of the platform, carrying himself as though he was about to perform. “Observe, Watson, the splendid acoustics of this room. No doubt the recital of Chopin’s Concertos would be most delightful to hear, like velvet on one’s eardrums.” 

I smiled in response, marvelling somewhat at the passion that Holmes took in classical music. It struck me as something most remarkable that a man who did not know the name of our current Prime Minister or simple factual information regarding society could be so well versed in the Nocturnes and Concertos of such a fine composer as Chopin. His violin playing, despite his primary concern that it would irritate me when we first met, was nothing short of splendour; it was, apart from when investigating a case, the only time he appeared wholly focused and at ease. Many a time would I enjoy listening to his compositions, which were often rousing yet soothing, stirring yet restful. He took great strides around the stage, which had already been cleared of the furniture which the orchestra had been sat on, whilst his eyes narrowed, as though homing in on his prey. 

The room was vast and grand; lavishly decorated as any usual theatre, but due to the fact that I knew of the happenings previously in the evening, I found the whole surrounding somewhat sinister. Holmes continued pacing whilst the openness of the space and the fact that someone died in front of an audience played havoc with my nerves and I began to shiver, even though the room was stiflingly hot.

Thankfully, only a few moments passed before he cleared his throat and tugged on the lapels of his dress-coat. “It is startlingly obvious that the scene has been cleared quickly, ergo it is of little use to us in terms of the providence of information,” He mused loudly, “and so we are left with a blank scene, and so must strive to locate a weapon or motive instead, Watson.”

I nodded in agreement, causing Holmes to smile. “I feel that the victim’s instrument may be of use to us Watson, as it could perhaps tell us much about his habits and persona, as well as whether or not anyone had a reasonable motive to terminate his life in such a manner.”

We headed back down the corridor from whence we had come. Whilst I strode confidently toward the foyer desk, Holmes shrank down another adjoining but far less well lit corridor, his ghostly form fading into the twilight of the passageway. I made polite conversation with the desk attendant, having assumed that Holmes’ disappearance was necessary to the case and so I would be required to occupy the attendant whilst he assimilated the information he needed. I made small talk with the attendant, regarding the recent weather and refurbishments to Charing Cross station.

As I saw Holmes reappear from the half-light of the corridor I bid the attendant farewell, following Holmes out of the main door of the theatre. It was at this point that I noticed the change; Holmes was subtly concealing a black leather case, his arm rigid as he clutched it tight against his side. We entered the nearest cab together and Holmes gave the address as Grosvenor Place to the driver. 

Only when we were moving at a considerable pace along The Strand did Holmes begin to speak. 

“The clarinet.” He said simply, drumming his fingers on the hard black leather. He unclasped the holdings on the case and opened it, his eyes once again narrowing and focusing upon the minutiae of its contents. He leant down and took great inhalations, traversing his face up and down the inside of the case until all at once he sat back, his hand reaching out towards the instrument.

His pale, slender fingers plucked the reed from the clarinet case and he lifted it towards his hawk-like eyes, narrowing them to analyse the tales it could tell. He looked, I recall, like a falcon that had just spotted a particularly plump mouse, and was mentally arranging its descent to attack the helpless creature.

“Such a marvellous specimen, Watson.” he said, in quiet mutterings.

I questioned him as to what was so remarkable about this object, but he was not for giving a verbal response. Instead, he gave a deep, loud sniff, holding the reed between his forefinger and thumb delicately a little way from his nose, which was twitching.

“An exceptional weapon!” This time Holmes’ voice wasn’t a mutter, but rather a whisper, one of awe, no less.

I looked at him in astonishment “A weapon?” I questioned in confusion, for it was obvious to me that this small object, further dwarfed by Holmes’ sizeable hands, had not any malicious quality to it whatsoever. 

Holmes stiffened to his full height. “A jar, my dear Watson, I simply must obtain a jam-jar to contain this specimen.”

“But pray, Holmes, why on earth do you?” I asked, incredulously. Amidst my confusion, dear reader, I admit that my temper was tried by my being kept in the dark. I was sure that Holmes knew of my annoyance but on some occasions he did appear most ignorant to the feelings of others and society and so, upon reflection I determine that it was most probable that he was not aware of my irritation. 

“This reed, this is how the man was killed, and I think we both agree, Watson, that to preserve the murder weapon is of exceptional importance to any investigation.” He stated, smiling fondly at the object between his fingers. 

I opened my mouth in order to question him once more, but he shook his head, replacing the reed delicately.

“We must move onwards, Watson. I feel I have processed all the information from the theatre and this reed. We must now go forth and investigate Grosvenor Place to speak to Mr Armitage.” 

I quizzed him as to why we were to visit the place he had just mentioned and he responded in earnest. 

“Grosvenor Place is the residence of Mr Benedict Armitage, the concert pianist and conductor, and, I feel, our best contact for obtaining information regarding the victim.”

I felt it futile to enquire as to how Holmes had discovered these details, and so I merely inclined my head in agreement, as the cab continued to move between the humming streets of night-time London. 

Upon arriving at Grosvenor Place we circled the property which we were to enter a number of times, though it was evident even to myself that no one would be answering our knocks on the front door any time soon. The house, from the outside, looked as though there was no one inside, certainly no one awake. Even the gas lamp outside the front window was not lit, shrouding the seemingly abandoned house in further darkness. After briskly rapping its brass door-knocker one last time it was obvious that other methods of entering the house were needed. At this point, Holmes’ physical abilities came in most useful and, with one slam of his shoulder against the door, as well as a boisterous jiggling of his pocket knife in the lock of course, we found ourselves in the parlour of the conductor’s house, which had a most agreeable, tidy layout. From there we methodically entered each room, myself searching for anything which Holmes might find of interest, whilst Holmes himself inspected the various intricacies of each room, even searching through the vast piles of music sheets residing on the desk of the owner. Once Holmes declared that he had finished investigating the lower floor, we moved on to the upstairs of the house where we were met by a most unpleasant but by this time (as I had been investigating with Holmes a number of months) usual sight, in the main bedroom of the house. There, by the fireplace, was the body of the proprietor himself; Mr Benedict Armitage, made apparent by the conductor’s baton protruding from his breast pocket.

The corpse of Mr Armitage was slumped in his chair, looking moderately peaceful, particularly when compared to the horrendous, mutilated corpses my eyes have been duly acquainted with during my army days. His skin was still warm and he looked as though his life had been one well enjoyed; his portly figure strained the buttons of his tailored shirt whilst his fingers were adorned with a number of gold bands. I looked upon him solemnly, for he gave off a dignified air; that of someone of importance, or even regal in rank. 

Then, amidst the sombre atmosphere came the loud sniffing of Holmes. He had a remarkable nose for detection, and I could see he was taking particular interest in the man’s pipe, which was still lit and resting precariously on his breast. Holmes gave a wry smile and licked his lips as his eyes fluttered shut, almost as though he was experiencing some sort of euphoria. 

“What is it?” I asked “Was he smoking some opiate or other?” There was nothing remarkable to me about the smell of the smoke, but I knew that to Holmes even this plain smelling tobacco smoke was a canvas adorned with bright colours open to deduction. 

“You mean to tell me, Watson, that you cannot smell the distinct flavour of the tobacco?” He took a long sniff again, his nose twitching this time. “Such a strong, fine, ribbon cut tobacco, rather similar to the shag tobacco I myself smoke. It’s thick and very calming, how delightful!” His eyes shut and he took another sizeable inhalation of the smoke, as though relishing it. “I’ve sent a wire for Lestrade.” He said “I suspected we may have another body, though I wasn’t expecting to find such conclusive evidence as I have done.”

“What have you found?” 

“The tobacco, Watson, it is near enough identical to the strength of the tobacco which I smoke. Shag tobacco is notoriously cheap yet exceptionally strong, so what need would a man with such evident wealth as this one have with such a tobacco, other than he felt it necessary to have such a strength as this. No doubt he would not have procured this tobacco himself, as he is clearly a man of status and it would not do for him to be seen around the markets this is sold on. Thus, just as I have my charming irregulars, so too does this man have an accomplice of lower status or whom is indebted to him who fetches this tobacco for him. Now, returning, if we may Watson, to the strength of the tobacco. Evidently he finds relief in his smoking, but from what does he call upon relief? One might suggest that his job perhaps contains an element of stress and that he may have deep down suffered deep anxieties. However, Watson, I postulate that this man has not smoked such a strong tobacco for a long time and, rather unsurprisingly I am correct. Observe the ends of his fingers if you will. Stained yellow by tobacco, yes, however this particular shred of tobacco should stain the fingers a much darker, browner colour, as opposed to this pale yellow. This means that until recently he had not smoked such a strong tobacco, as it would have had more of an effect on his skin. So, something has occurred recently causing him to alter the strength in his tobacco, so obviously something of distress. We have already been informed, have we not, that the conductor was seen as part of a masked gang, whom the clarinettist’s murder could be attributed to, and so a reasonable conclusion could be that this man was indeed embroiled in a plot to kill the clarinettist and so for this reason was under immense mental stress, which he chose to medicate with a strong tobacco.”

“Now, we must establish a motive for this killing, Watson. Clearly if someone was to pursue this man or covet anything of his it would be his wealth, and yet here he is, lying dead and not a jewel is out of place. Whoever killed him had far more sinister motives than to simply pilfering. I suspect, Watson, that this man was murdered because he posed a significant threat to the anonymity of the murderer, and it was his knowledge of the killer that caused him such stress.”

“Holmes, are you sure this is not too much of an inference? Where is such conclusive evidence towards it being this type of murder?”

“Watson, it is a crime to theorise without all the facts, you are most correct. However, I have in fact assembled something of a repertoire within my head regarding the scene before us. Whoever murdered this man was clearly someone close to him; an associate or confidante if you will. Notice, Watson, that he is dead, yet there are no signs of trauma to the body, nor to the face. Thus his death was neither in any way violent nor involving a struggle. He is sat perfectly still, exceptionally peaceful. You noted that we, as strangers to this house, had to force open the lock in order to enter. Upon inspecting the lock I found no previous signs of forced entry, therefore whoever had entered previous to us was acquainted with the proprietor and was either let into the house or had a key of his own, thus it is reasonable to accept that whoever poisoned him was a close acquaintance. Now, onto the matter of poison- yes, Watson, this man was poisoned with cyanide, albeit a little differently to the poison induced death of the clarinettist, but cyanide all the same. It disappoints me greatly, Dr Watson, that you cannot even begin to smell the traces of cyanide that this tobacco has been laced with, for it is evident to me most obviously in fact.”

At this latest revelation I did reach for my handkerchief, holding it to my nasal passages so as not to inhale any more of the apparently toxic smoke. 

“Smoking tobacco itself releases poisonous cyanide gas and so the murderer did not need to use so much extra cyanide, particularly when factoring in the strength of the tobacco. However, Watson, to my trained nostrils this smoke is alarmingly out of place and toxic, and so it is practical to conclude that this man was killed via cyanide poisoning.”

Holmes removed the pipe from the man’s breast and inspected it closely. “Most certainly cyanide, Watson. Most definitely. Although not identical to the poisoning of the clarinettist on the stage, it is most certain that our murderer has a modus operandi; that of cyanide. He chose to dip the reed of the clarinet in the liquid, whilst for this murder he chose to lace the man’s pipe with it. How exquisite!”

Holmes extinguished the smoking tobacco and unravelled his handkerchief, tipping the residue onto the fabric and rolling it up tightly. “I shall examine this a little closer, back at Baker Street, once we have spoken with Inspector Lestrade and I have directed him appropriately.”

Holmes took long strides about the room, opening the drawer of Armitage’s dresser. He rifled briefly through the papers in the drawer, frowning at them.

“These papers, Watson, they’ve recently been disturbed.” He bent low, inspecting the drawer from beneath. “The bottom of the drawer has been chipped, from where someone has pushed it back in frantically. This clearly happened recently as the wood is not discoloured or smooth yet.” His deft hands pulled out numerous scraps, ticket stubs, and receipts. 

“Perhaps someone, maybe the murderer, was looking for something in a hurry?” I suggested.

“Oh, marvellous!” He said, rather calmly. “This is certainly interesting.”

Before I had time to enquire, the doorbell rang and we returned downstairs to answer the door. A portly policeman with straining uniform buttons and a ginger, bushy beard tipped both Holmes and myself a polite nod before announcing that Inspector Lestrade was to arrive in no more than five minutes.

Inspector Lestrade met myself and my companion in the parlour of the house, and Holmes greeted Lestrade by commenting on his usual tardiness. 

“The corpse will most certainly be cold to the touch now.” he remarked loudly, just as the ratty featured Inspector entered, flanked by the portly policeman. “Every second you waste at Scotland Yard before traversing to the crime scene greatly diminishes the amount of useful evidence you may find, Lestrade. Punctuality is of significant importance.”

Lestrade chose to ignore my good companion as a great many people often did, and instead gestured for Holmes to inform him of his findings.

“Male, late forties, cyanide poisoning.” Holmes spoke, sounding not entirely unlike our good housekeeper Mrs Hudson when she recounts the items on her list before a shopping trip. “More importantly, we have a potential key suspect, who has taken a train to Manchester. The body and its surroundings will tell you no more than I have just revealed. Though there are far more details about the proprietor’s personal life which I could detail, I shan’t, as they are not relevant to this enquiry. Instead, dear Lestrade, you must take the first train you can towards Manchester Oxford Road station. I have exceptional reason to suspect that our disappearing potential murderer has fled up North.”

Holmes then walked straight out of the house and toward the end of the road, ready to hail a carriage. Lestrade scurried after him, but Holmes tutted and merely showed him the small piece of paper he had retained from the bedroom. 

“This is the name you are looking for.” He said “Make haste and search around Manchester, inform me immediately once you have found him.”

Then he clambered into the cab which had stopped, signalling for me to join him. We spent the cab ride in complete silence, as I understood Holmes to be piecing together evidence and observances in his head, and I knew to disturb him would be something destructive. I wondered briefly as to whether Holmes had really spent enough time at each of the crime scenes, and without my needing to ask him he responded. 

“Watson, we spent more time than wholly necessary at both crime scenes; two minutes of investigating makes me something of an expert on the surroundings, and so the twenty five we spent at Armitage’s house were more than ample.”

Upon returning to Baker Street I prepared a pot of tea and Holmes and I sat in the parlour, reflecting upon the day’s events. To me, this was finally the moment at which I could question Holmes on his spectacular knowledge regarding this latest case. I knew that he was near to solving, if he had not already solved the entire perplexing mystery, which I myself was left most puzzled by. Primarily, I asked him how on earth he knew who the criminal was, as well as asking him who had committed such atrocities.

“Remarkably simple, my dear Watson, certainly nothing of a three-pipe problem,” Holmes spoke, with a curt nod towards the chair in which the client had sat. “Indeed, I had my suspicions when I first clapped eyes on the chap.”

I took a sharp inhalation of air, my eyebrows elevating in astonishment as Holmes’ features twisted into a smile most dry in nature.

“If it could calm you, my dear Watson, do feel free to pull on your pipe.”

He continued his narrative whilst I smoked liberally.

“You yourself, Watson, commented on the nervous nature of the gentleman, yet it appears to me that he was in fact a murderous mixture of timidity and boldness.” 

“Holmes, I simply have no idea what on earth-”

“The client, Watson. He is responsible for the murders.”

“Mr Davison, he is whom you suspect is responsible for these murders?”

“Oh yes, that was his name” said Holmes dismissively, as though a person’s name was of little importance to his observations, which, upon reflection, I see it was.

I looked at Holmes incredulously, completely astounded at this latest revelation. “The client was the criminal?” I repeated.

“Yes, Watson, if you could please refrain from repeating everything I say, whilst I explain to you my findings.”

It seemed, dear reader, almost impossible to me that this slight, charming gentleman could possibly have anything to do with these malicious, vengeful crimes I had observed. However, I allowed him to continue, penning brief notes on his observances as he did so.

“Well, do tell me, Holmes, how on earth you believe this gentleman to be involved in the crimes?”

“Involved? My dear Watson, he was not just merely involved at all. In fact, this man’s involvement was not mere in the slightest, why unless I am very much mistaken; he is our mysterious poison killer.”

“I have sent Detective Inspector Lestrade towards Manchester in pursuit of our dear client, for the very good reason that at the house of Mr Armitage I found a receipt from King’s Cross Station office, declaring the purchase of two tickets from that station to Manchester Oxford Road station, bought in the name of a Mr James Davison. It seems something most strange, does it not, Watson, that the gentleman we spoke to left us saying that he had to catch a train, and then caught the train, with his ticket which was at Armitage’s house, yet Armitage was dead. Davison was known to Armitage and so would not have needed to force entry into the house, making him the perfect candidate for the murderer of Mr Armitage.”

“But what was his motive?” I questioned, still perplexed as to how such a charming, seemingly mild mannered individual could be capable of such malicious acts.

“Plain and simple, my dear Watson. Jealousy and the will for revenge, as per most murders in fact. He said, did he not, that he is a keen clarinet player, and it is evident that he is, or rather was, firm friends with Mr Armitage, the conductor, as he purchased him a train ticket and gained entry into his abode. He had both means and access then, to the clarinettist of the orchestra. His fingers were in perpetual motion all the while he was sat before us, partially perhaps due to anxiousness, however the exact finger patterns he was demonstrating are in fact the clarinet positions for Chopin’s Concerto Op. 21; a piece which was to be performed this very evening by the murdered clarinettist. It is clear that jealousy was the motive - only recently the orchestra had held auditions for a principal clarinettist. I discovered an invite to said auditions in Armitage’s drawer. Obviously, Davison did not achieve his desire of becoming the principal clarinet player in the orchestra and so planned to murder the man who had. Davison hoped to quietly dispose of the clarinettist and resume his place in the orchestra, formulating a friendship of utility with the conductor, Armitage. I propose to you, dear Watson that as our dear friend Davison had access to both victims, as well as a clear motive (to his mind), it is he who killed the men, and has consequently departed towards Manchester in a feeble attempt to escape justice. I realised another great number of things regarding these crimes, you realise Watson, but I fear that the best course of action now is to wait upon Lestrade to return with news regarding our elusive client.”

Not four days later a letter arrived at our address, and Holmes declared it to be of Lestrade’s hand, causing him to grin schematically.

“Observe, Watson,” said he, “this letter contains details about our good friend, Mr James Davison.”

I had been busying myself perusing a medical paper, but to this declaration I gave my full attention, allowing Holmes to dictate Lestrade’s news to me:

“Upon following your instructions regarding the pursuit of the notorious Mr Davison toward Manchester, we have indeed made a most remarkable discovery regarding his criminal prowess.”

Holmes looked elated somewhat as he read on:

“After questioning numerous landlords and policemen about the town concerning Mr Davison’s whereabouts, it appeared obvious to us that he was well-known to those up North as a most malevolent character indeed. According to one officer whom I spoke to, Davison is suspected of provoking the untimely deaths of a great number of people, including his mother-in-law, his old schoolmaster and even a policeman. He had seemingly vanished from the town altogether since the accusations had arisen, a most queer occurrence I am sure you will agree Mr. Holmes!”

Holmes’ eyes scanned further down the page and he drew in a deep breath, beginning to read again.

“It is with great disappointment, dear Holmes that I must report to you that we did indeed eventually locate the infamous Mr Davison, or rather, Holmes, to be more accurate, we found his corpse.”

“His corpse?” I ejaculated, surprised that such a seemingly strong, wily character as Mr Davison would be defeated so spectacularly.

Holmes nodded. “It seems we are most unfortunate that this disreputable scoundrel will not serve his correct sentence.” I was too occupied with the demise of the mysterious character, and so did not reply, leading Holmes to continue:

“It appears from the rest of Lestrade’s note that the cause of Mr Davison’s death is in itself a mystery, though I have no doubt that I can solve his last mystery, from only the description given in this letter.” To this I nodded in agreement, for Holmes had no doubt already analysed the minutiae of Mr Davison’s parting actions.

His eyes darted about the stationery between his fingers and a small smile, something wry in nature, began to spread onto his lips.

“It is worth noting, my dear Watson, that bravery is but one’s own death away from stupidity.”

“Whatever do you mean?” I questioned.

“I mean to suppose that from the details of the corpse given in this letter, we can conclude Mr Davison’s overwhelming stupidity.”

“But dear Holmes, he seemed to me to be of relative intelligence, indeed his crimes were seemingly faultless! Why, I did not know myself until you told me that he was even a suspect of murder, his double bluff was most convincing.”

“I have eliminated the impossible, dear Watson, and in a fate which you would determine as immensely ironic no doubt, it is apparent to me that this “intellectual” did in fact kill himself, by his own carelessness. You observed, did you not Watson, how twitchy his movements were when in our residence. You also noted, I hope, how clean his hands were. It is near enough impossible to achieve such a clean pair of hands in London water with merely soap alone. And so it is perhaps determinable that he had some description of chemical on his skin, causing them to gleam with such noticeable radiance. Now, Watson, combine his atrribute with his queer actions: At one point he raised his hand to his mouth as though about to chew upon his fingernails. However, as his finger touched his lip he jumped as if in fright, and I hope you noticed also, Watson, his shifting in order to place his hand under his knee, thus restricting himself from putting his hand toward his mouth once more.”

I had indeed noticed the former part of these actions and so nodded at my good companion, allowing him to continue.

“A plausible conclusion to draw from this is that he did indeed have a chemical on his hands, one that was in fact so deadly he could not allow it to touch his lips or mouth. One such chemical being cyanide.”

A smile broke upon my lips as I calculated what Holmes was inferring.

“He had poison upon his hands still. The poison which he used to kill all those people. How did it kill him? He must have accidentally ingested it.”

“Accidentally and fatally, yes.” Holmes confirmed.

“But how?” 

“A matter of simplicity, Watson. The observance of the hand moving towards his mouth is very telling indeed. Suppose that on that particular occasion he did in fact remember that he had the poison on his hands. It does not mean that he would always remember. Unless I’m very much mistaken, Watson, I believe our beloved rogue made a fatal error - that of placing his cyanide tinged fingers on his lips, thus poisoning himself in the same manner as he has a great many others.” 

I spluttered with disbelief that such an ending could come to such a seemingly intelligent man. His crimes were calculated with precision, and yet he was so clumsy as to bring about his own death in such a way. 

“You still see but do not observe, my good Watson.” said Holmes. “For you saw the nervous nature of the apparent client, yet did not observe the doubtful facade of the man, the deceit in his eyes and the treachery in his smile. It is, by and large, the nature of most humans to presume the best of someone, and you fell straight into Mr Davison’s trap; he hoped to appear as an innocent client. Rather often I find the problem with disguise is that it provides an inescapable self-portrait. His nervousness was all genuine, as was his wish to be anywhere except in this flat. A normal person might view this as a trauma; a reaction to the scene he had witnessed. However, his nervousness was seemingly overplayed, and his uncomfortable nature was due to the fact that he was apprehensive to be sat before us. The guilty look on his face was just that, Watson, a look of guilt. Whilst someone may view my cold, distant nature and seeming pessimism as abhorrent, in this instance and in the calling that I have chosen in life, it is most necessary and useful. Perhaps our good friend Mr Davison might have benefitted somewhat from disallowing his emotions and vices to rule his actions. Certainly, had this been the case, it is probable to suppose that there would not be so many murders attributed to his hand.”

Holmes leant back in his chair and lighted his pipe once more. 

“Now, Watson, returning to our original predicament which you were explaining this morning. Just how many planets are there in this so-called solar system?”


End file.
